


I’m breathing in the chemicals

by laminy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bottom Derek, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 22:25:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laminy/pseuds/laminy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles needs a smoke. He ends up at Derek's with the promise of one. When Stiles finds Derek's particular mix a little too strong, Derek tries shotgunning to make it less intense. It doesn't quite work. Takes place sometime, any time, during or after season three (mentions of Stiles's hair and Derek's new apartment).</p>
            </blockquote>





	I’m breathing in the chemicals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breenwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breenwolf/gifts).



Stiles closes his laptop, and immediately his hands go to his face, fingertips pressing against his eyes. He breathes slowly into his palms; he needs a break. He thinks of the piles of homework and research still left for him to do on his laptop, and he almost wants to cry. But not really; it isn’t that dramatic. Really, he just needs sleep. He needs some form of release. All of the math homework that he has been working on has left his dick feeling a little dead, so when he reaches down into his desk drawer, he brushes past his oft-used tube of lube, deft fingers searching out a plastic baggie.

Which he cannot find. “Fuck,” he mutters, pushing his chair back from the desk and starting to root through the drawer. He can’t find what he’s looking for, so he stops to think. When exactly was the last time he took the time to smoke? It was with Scott, and Scott… “Fuck,” Stiles says again, remembering that Scott had finished the rest of what Stiles had, and Stiles had been too busy since then to get any more. 

Stiles uses his remaining energy to push his desk chair over to his bed, and then to fling himself onto his mattress. He lands with his limbs splayed out, arms over his head and feet still dangling off the bed. _Well, I may as well just_ die now, Stiles thinks, and now he really does kinda want to cry.

He can just see his cell, and if he stretches out a bit more he can just reach it, his fingers curling around the hard plastic. With half his face smushed into his blankets, and using only one hand, he manages to get out a text to Scott that he think explains his situation very well: 

_for the love of god tell me there is something in your house I can smoke in the next 10 mins_

He considered attempting some hilarious lyrical reference to some of the music that they’ve either listened to while high, or that involve drug references, but fuck effort. Stiles stares at his phone, willing to Scott to reply immediately. He whines, and reaches out again to push his phone onto the floor in frustration. Almost as soon as it falls to the floor, his phone starts to ring. Stiles eagerly pushes himself up to grab his phone, but then he freezes.

That isn’t Scott’s ringtone, it’s Derek’s. Stiles had been inspired to change Scott’s to _Django_ , after they saw the movie together, and realized that it was fucking awesome, and it’s hilarious to get a text from Scott and have the room fill with sound of _you may be sad, but remember, they’ll all soon pass away, Oh Django! after the showers the sun will be shining_.

But no, what’s pumping out of those tiny speakers right now is the _Imperial March_ , which Stiles changed it to after the last time he saw Derek stalk through the shadows with his red eyes glowing. Equally as hilarious, Stiles thinks, but not at this moment. What the fuck could Derek want right now? Stiles reaches down and snatches his phone off the floor, reading his screen.

_You’ll have to come get it_

Stiles looks down in confusion. He goes back through his messages, checking the last thing that he sent to Scott, and…it’s not the message he just sent. It was about Scott borrowing a book for English class. He sighs, and looks at his text history with Derek; they don’t text often, and what they do say is never more than a few short words, so his message reading _for the love of god tell me there is something in your house I can smoke in the next 10 mins_ stands out like a sore thumb on the screen.

Stiles is surprised that Derek is agreeable to the request as he is. He’s internally debating the situation: to stay in his room and go back to his work, or maybe just forcing himself to jerk off a couple of times to try to feel better, or actually going to Derek’s apartment and…what? Smoke with him? Smoke while Derek awkwardly hovers and watches him? Smoke while Derek leaves him on his own?

Stiles shrugs, and texts his short reply.

_okay, be there in a few_

\+ + + + +

Stiles is a little excited when he heads up the stairs to Derek’s front door; so much that he’s forgotten about all the stress of earlier in the day. Maybe he doesn’t need whatever Derek’s holding, maybe just knowing that Derek is holding something at all is enough for Stiles to feel better. He knocks on the door a couple of times, eyes flitting around as he waits for Derek to come let him in, which he does, almost immediately.

“Uh, hey,” Stiles says, offering Derek an awkward wave of his hand, before slipping it back into the pocket of his jeans. He quickly takes in the sweat on Derek’s brow, his chest, his arms, his everywhere. It was certainly a sight that Stiles could learn to appreciate. He obviously interrupted one of Derek’s workouts; at least, he _hoped_ that’s what he was interrupting.

“Hi,” Derek replies simply, stepping out of the way to let Stiles into his apartment.

Stiles looks around, as he had on his couple previous visits to the apartment, just to take it all in. It’s so different from what he expected Derek to live in, and Stiles likes being surprised. By this, anyway; Stiles likes non-life threatening surprises. He turns to look at Derek, whom he thought was still waiting by the door, but who turns out to be already walking away. “So, sorry about the random text,” he says, stepping further into the loft, “I’m just kind of…losing my mind, I guess. With school, and…stuff.” Derek knows about the _stuff_ ; Derek has been living the _stuff_ a lot longer than Stiles has. Which really sucks; if Stiles thinks about it, it does nothing more than make him feel a little depressed. It’s no wonder then, that Derek relies on a little recreational ganja to make it through the day. Stiles smiles at the thought. Like Derek needed to add smoking to his repertoire of attractive things he does.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Derek says from the apartment’s kitchen area, opening up one of the drawers by the stove. “I assumed you were pretty desperate when you texted me.”

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles agrees, deciding not to tell Derek that it was all just a big misunderstanding. It didn’t really matter at this point anyway, did it? He was here, Derek was here, and Derek was producing a small tin, walking back to hand it over to Stiles.

Stiles turns the tin over his hands, realizing that it’s a cigarette case. It looks old, so Stiles assumes that it wasn’t Derek’s to begin with, and it's decorated with several small roses, and a peacock. “This is great,” he says, lifting the case up.

“It was my grandfather’s,” Derek says, walking back into the kitchen. He grabs a glass from the sink and fills it at the tap. 

“He a big smoker too?” Stiles asks, opening the case. Inside, he finds four joints, a good size, and nicely rolled at that. He takes one out, then decides on taking another, and closes the case, holding it out for Derek to take back.

Derek scoffs, and takes a long drink of water. “Yeah, tobacco,” he replies finally, putting the glass back in the sink. He strides towards Stiles, takes the case back, and looks at the two joints Stiles is holding in his other hand. He holds his hand out expectantly, and Stiles drops one of the two onto his palm.

“Well, yeah,” Stiles mutters, watching Derek put the second joint back in the case. He slips the case into the pocket of his loose sweatpants, and then tosses Stiles a lighter that he didn’t even know Derek had.

“You’re not partaking?” Stiles asks, flicking the lighter repeatedly, an annoying habit.

Derek shrugs. “You don’t plan on sharing?”

“Uh, we can,” Stiles says, although he hadn’t actually considered it. After he had walked into the apartment, he had imagined himself relaxing on Derek’s couch, smoking by himself, while Derek went back to working out.

“I think it’s probably a bit much for you all by yourself, Stiles,” Derek explains. “I need something a little…stronger, than most, probably stronger than what you’re used to.”

 _Duh_ , Stiles thinks. It makes total sense: since the bite, Scott always seemed to need a bit more than Stiles to get to the same high. It freaked them out at first, because _before_ the bite, they had always been worried about Scott smoking too much and sending himself into an asthmatic attack. Just another thing they had to get used to.

“Trust me,” Derek continues, “you’ll get enough.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, and then he’s following Derek to the couch, collapsing beside him on the cushions. He holds the joint in the tips of his fingers, and he flicks the lighter again with his other hand. He gently rolls the joint into the flame, watching the end take light. He brings it up to his mouth, and he’s not sure if it’s an effort to show off to Derek or if he just really needs it that badly, but he takes a couple more puffs than he’s used to before he takes the joint away, passing it to Derek, their fingers lazily bumping against each other. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a couple beats, but he can’t stop himself from coughing. “Fuck,” he groans, bringing his fist up to his mouth, coughing loudly.

“Told you,” Derek says, slowly exhaling the smoke past his smirking lips.

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says, and he has to turn away from Derek before he just gives up and dies of embarrassment altogether. This has not been his finest moment, and Derek has seen him at some of his most recent lowest. “Just FYI,” he begins, his coughing finally ceasing, “I _have_ done this before. It’s just…Jesus, warn a guy.”

“I did,” Derek shrugs, offering the joint back to Stiles, but Stiles just waves it away.

“I’m not over the first hit yet,” Stiles grumbles, “another one will kill me for sure.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I‘m sure.” He has the joint back to his lips, inhaling again.

Stiles turns to look at him, and he’s pretty fucking dumbstruck at this point, because Derek’s head has tilted back, leaving his long neck totally exposed, and his eyes are hooded and dark. Plus, when he starts to exhale, his lips go just a little pouty, and his front teeth (one of Derek’s cuter attributes, _not hot, but cute_ , Stiles thinks) are on display. Put that together with how Derek generally looks, the fact that his shirt is still wet with sweat, and the fact that Stiles thinks that he can already feel the encroaching high, and Stiles is really too tempted to just swing his leg over Derek’s and straddle him right here on the couch. He squeezes his eyes shut, the fingers on one hand digging into his thigh, his other hand pushing through his hair. 

“You don’t seem that relaxed,” Derek says, and Stiles is going to have to kill his body, because what the hell, did he just actually _shiver_?

“Uh, no,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “I’m just gonna --” He’s pushing himself up off the couch, but he stops at the feeling of Derek’s fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging him back down.

“You just need to try some more,” Derek says, and when Stiles looks at him, his stupid eyebrows are stupid and high on his forehead as he waits for a response.

Stiles sighs, and finally he nods. “Yeah, okay.” Derek smiles at that, and then Stiles is shocked to find himself with a lap full of Derek Hale, who had moved as smooth as anything to get there. “Uh, what?”

Derek is holding the joint in his fingers, almost to his mouth when he speaks. “It’ll make it less intense,” he says, and then he’s taking a couple puffs.

“Uh, you sure about that?” Stiles asks, looking up at Derek, resisting the urge to shift his hips; he isn’t sure how Derek would respond to that. Then while Derek is still holding the joint in one hand, his other hand goes to his chin, holding Stiles still while he moves in, their lips almost together as he slowly exhales and Stiles slowly inhales. His eyes flutter shut, and he finds his hands moving to grip at Derek’s thighs now. He holds in the smoke, and though the hit _is_ less intense this time, the situation sure hasn’t decreased any of the tension in the room.

When Stiles finally exhales, and he opens his eyes, he finds Derek smiling at him, his glance going back and forth from his eyes to his mouth.

“Better?” Derek asks, shifting his body to settle closer to Stiles.

“Uh-huh,” Stiles replies dumbly, watching his fingers curl into Derek’s thighs, feeling the strong muscles there. He can almost see the line of them underneath Derek’s sweats, which maybe aren’t as loose anymore as Stiles remembered.

“More?” Derek asks, his voice low, and the joint is already back to his mouth before Stiles can reply. This time, with one hand curled on the back of Stiles’s neck, Derek leans back to place the joint in an ashtray on the coffee table. Stiles watches the movement of Derek’s body, feels the shift on his lap, and then Derek is back, both hands on him this time, smoke swirling around them in a heady cloud as Derek exhales. Stiles inhales as much as he can take, holding it in his lungs, his eyes closed, listening to the beating of his own heart, then finally he has to exhale. His eyes flutter open, and they focus on Derek’s.

Then it’s Derek about to move again, this time possibly off of him completely. His hands slip from their grasp on Stiles, and Stiles can feel the shift in his muscles. But before Derek can go anywhere, Stiles grabs his shirt and tugs him back down, their mouths fitting together, the taste of acrid smoke on each of their tongues.

Derek starts to rock on Stiles’s lap, grinding down, their bodies moving together, and Stiles is as happy as he ever is at Derek’s reaction; relieved to know that it wasn’t just him feeling this way.

“How do you feel?” Derek asks, pulling away to pant softly at Stiles’s ear, then dipping his head to nip at Stiles’s neck.

“Amazing,” Stiles admits, and then he turns to get Derek’s mouth back on his. His hands drift down Derek’s sides, and around to his back. His fingers slip up under the hem of Derek’s shirt; Derek’s skin is hot beneath his fingertips. Stiles groans into Derek’s mouth, and sits up, his hands moving over Derek’s back in broad strokes.

Derek pulls back, and mutters, “take it off,” before kissing Stiles again. Stiles tugs at Derek’s shirt, lifting it up, and when Derek breaks the kiss once more, the shirt is pulled over his head, going to the floor beside the couch.

“Uh, holy…” Stiles eyes go over Derek’s body, like they have before, but the rush of his high and the feeling of Derek on his lap have him biting at lip; have him wanting to bite at Derek. “Fuck,” he finally manages to say. “Derek?”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, his hands working at the buttons on Stiles’s shirt; Stiles can tell that he is moving much slower than usual, and it’s kind of weirding him out.

“Are you high?” Stiles asks.

Derek’s eyes lift to meet his. He can’t even be bothered to reply with words, he just rolls his eyes and goes back to work on Stiles’s shirt.

“Wait,” Stiles says, grasping Derek’s fingers with his own, “I meant, like…” _What do I mean?_ Stiles asks himself, trying to sort out his words in his head before forming them with his mouth. “Are you…why are you -- am I taking advantage of you?” It sounds ridiculous to him now that he’s said it. He can only imagine what the hell Derek’s thinking. 

“Am I taking advantage of you?” Derek asks, and the heat in his words is diminished by the smile of achievement on his face at finally having reached the last button on Stiles’s shirt.

“No,” Stiles says quickly, shaking his head. “I’m just really…whatever you smoke, it’s really strong, you know. I’m just surprised.” Despite this, he’s shrugging off his shirt, and then tugging off his t-shirt, tossing it aside somewhere near Derek’s. “Am I hallucinating?”

“Yeah, I bet that’s it,” Derek replies sarcastically.

“Can I fuck you then?”

Stiles can hear his heart pounding in his ears in the ensuing silence that lasts only a couple of beats, but that feels like forever. How the fuck did Stiles find himself here? What the hell is Derek going to say to _that_?

“Fuck, yes,” Derek breathes, pushing himself off Stiles to stand up, pushing his sweatpants down over his hips, then stepping out of them.

“Uh,” Stiles says, stunned at the sight of Derek’s dick, half-hard, jutting out from between his thighs, flushed and wet at the tip. Then when Derek turns around to go back into the kitchen, Stiles can only stare at his ass. “Okay then.” He awkwardly half-pushes himself up off the couch to fumble at his jeans, getting them down just over his hips before Derek is back on him.

“That’s good,” Derek says, straddling his hips, the press of Stiles’s dick and the dig of his jeans against him. He drops the lube he’d grabbed between them, and pulls Stiles back in for a bruising kiss.

Keeping as focused on Derek as he can, Stiles grasps the lube and pops the cap, squeezing it and smearing it on his fingers, moving to Derek’s ass.

“Oh, god,” Derek pulls back, starting to rock down on Stiles’s fingers. 

Stiles grunts and bites down on his lip; he wants so badly to take his fingers out and slip his dick in instead -- he thinks that maybe homework didn’t kill his dick as much as he’d thought. _Thank god._ He curls his fingers like he thinks maybe he should, like he does with himself when he's alone, and he watches Derek for a reaction.

“Oh, _god_ ,” is the only thing that Derek can say again. He gasps at another finger pressing in, but his potent high is keeping his muscles from clenching too tightly, making everything easier, smoother. Even as full as he is, he still feels empty, and how did he get here? When he had received the text from Stiles, his first thought wasn’t that it would turn into this. This wasn’t even Derek’s second thought. “Oh, now,” he gasps, his breath hitching as he kisses Stiles, their mouths sliding together, breathing heavily against each other.

“ _Now_ now?” Stiles asks, and Derek just nods.

When Stiles finally begins the press into Derek, Stiles wants to go slow, feeling each agonizing centimetre slip by unbearably slow, until Derek braces himself and presses down, taking the rest of Stiles in on his own.

Stiles’s head falls back against the couch, and his hips are arching up, and he almost feels like he’s about to die. He hopes that he doesn’t, just for everybody’s sake. The sensation of Derek wrapped so tightly around him, and that high that just keeps getting stronger and stronger, even though they haven’t inhaled any smoke in a few minutes by now, he feels as though he’s reached the peak of his youth, right here. He wraps an arm around Derek’s back, his other hand clawing at the couch beside his leg, and he starts a rhythm, fucking up into Derek, giving as good as he can as Derek rocks down. The hand on the couch moves to Derek’s leg, and Stiles feels as though he’d be strong enough to lift Derek right now; in his imagination, he gathers the strength to stand, gripping Derek tightly against him, holding him until they make it to the wall, or that stupid fucking spiral staircase that Stiles hates just because it goes against everything he thought of Derek for the longest time after they’d met. In his imagination, he fucks Derek into the floor, on the counter, in Derek’s bed, in _Stiles’s_ bed. Stiles wants to fuck Derek in every situation possible. Right here, on Derek’s couch, the two of them rocking heavily against each other, Derek’s breath stuttering and Stiles’s eyes squeezed shut, this is a pretty good start.

“Ugh, Stiles,” Derek moans, his hand going to his dick, squeezing it so that precum starts to leak over his fist, then stroking himself quickly.

Stiles gulps, eyes finally opening to watch the sight. He suddenly wants more than just to fuck Derek, or just to come in him, he wants Derek to come all over him. He wants each of them to be covered in the other. His mouth waters at the thought of it. “Derek,” he pants, moving his hand to cover Derek’s fist, and then replacing it entirely, jerking him off with zero patience. Stiles shifts, moving lower, putting Derek even further over him, making the angle better for when Derek is going to come. Stiles eyes close and he pictures Derek’s come shooting over his chest, maybe even landing on his face, and his own hips stutter. He gasps loudly, his voice breaking, everything going still for a moment, muscles tight, and he comes in Derek. He takes the moment for himself, relishing in the feeling. Once he’s come, he’s even more relaxed, feeling even more high, as if it were even possible. He’s slouching on the couch, his wrist going back to work on Derek. “On me, on me,” he pleads quietly, watching the head of Derek’s dick.

Derek falls forward, his hands grabbing the cushions on either side of Stiles’s head, fingers digging in tightly, and his hips jerk forward into Stiles’s grip. He comes with a quiet gasp, and he looks down to watch his come dripping from Stiles’s chest, some high up near his collarbone, some just under Stiles’s chin as well. Derek sighs, collapsing for a moment onto Stiles, breathing heavily in his ear. “Oh my god,” he mutters, reaching up to scrub at the side of his face, his stubble scratching against his palm.

Stiles looks at Derek, practically curled up on him, and he brings his arms up, wrapping around him. He smiles. Then he starts to laugh softly. Then it turns into a full-on giggle attack. “Oh shit,” he laughs, his body shaking with it.

“God, Stiles,” Derek mutters, voice tired, but annoyed.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, still laughing. He can’t help it, he really can’t. It’s just him; Scott never got the giggles after smoking, and obviously Derek doesn’t either. It just happens to Stiles. It happens to him after jerking off too, like all the tension has left his body, leaving nothing for him to but be amused. 

It’s the best fucking feeling ever.

“You came all over me,” Stiles says between breaths, looking down at Derek.

“You asked me to,” Derek points out, lifting his head. Then he lifts his whole body, and he lifts himself off of Stiles, collapsing beside him on the couch.

“I know,” Stiles says, leaning forward to grab the rest of the joint from the ashtray. “I know.” He starts looking for the lighter, finding it under his thigh. He relights the bud, watching the flame. He looks over at Derek, still smiling, and offers it up. “Want some?” he asks.

Derek just looks up at Stiles, his eyes red and glassy. “I think I’ve had enough,” he replies, and he shifts on the couch, trying to stretch out. He eyes Stiles’s chest, and softly licks his lips. "Of the pot, I mean."

Stiles shrugs. “Whatever,” he says, bringing the joint up to his lips, taking a long inhale. He leans over and presses his lips to Derek's, letting it all out.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for breenwolf, from her bottom!Derek prompt list. Title from Radioactive by Imagine Dragons, which really goes well with it. I've never smoked before, can you tell?


End file.
